


Mud

by Dustfactory



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M, Twins, or something, weird snake sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-04-15
Updated: 2006-04-15
Packaged: 2020-02-07 06:58:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18615496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dustfactory/pseuds/Dustfactory
Summary: Red and Green, together they make mud. SLASH.NOTE: OLD FIC, ABANDONED





	Mud

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this in 2006, and while i always meant to work on it more I just never really got around to it. I'm transferring it over from fanfiction.net and sticking the lemon back in it i had moved to live journal at the time. I was a weird kid, and there's weird snake sex or something. idk. I doubt I'll actually find the energy to finish this one either.

(1/25): I have come back to you a swinging man  
A sea of black spills across the Hogwarts grounds, bleached white dotting it like upturned flowers made of bone. It oozes like tar, smothering all signs of life beneath it.

Behind it, a creature of unnatural height and thinness follows, eyes of garnet fire, skin as pale as the moon that lights its path. Harry's scar gives a dull throb that intensifies as if an avalanche of cleavers has been set off, and he's at the bottom.

Those that are left huddle in the towers, watching the last sweep of the battle begin. Pathetic. Harry thinks. They look to their last hope, a child of sixteen who could be twelve in body, with Avada eyes as old as death itself.

Fools. Harry thinks. Or he would if he could think past the jackhammer in his skull.

He knows he has no chance against this crimson-eyed snake monster, but refuses to bow before it either. He hopes death will come quickly.

His scar is burning so fiercely that he puts a numbing charm on his entire head to keep from fainting, and one of the side effect is a floating detached sort of feeling that leaves his emotions rather dulled too.

Death's Army swarms the castle, and the inhabitants can hear their demand for entrance. When blasting the door off the hinges doesn't work, they resort to removing the bricks around the frame.

One by one the stone come down, and Hogwarts screams, groaning and creaking this way and that. She weeps in agony as she is pulled apart, piece by ancient piece. The grind of stone on stone makes them all cringe.

But at last the doors fall inward with a harsh scraping creak and then a loud resounding crash. Everything is silent, and dust filters up from the cracks in the stone floor. Harry watches grimly, and can't help but be reminded of the graveyard when the dust of Riddle's bones had filtered up from beneath him where he sat bound to that goddamn gravestone.

Harry smiles, and maybe it's just a little to hysterical, because everyone around him gives him rather horrified looks. Hermione squeezes his hand, because she's the only one close enough to see the tears that accompany it.

Harry wonders if she expects him to save them too.

He sure hopes not, because if he wasn't even able to save Ron, how is he suppose to save the world?

The stone dust settles in his nose, and his eyes, and his mouth. He sneezes, splattering phlegm all over his scuffed muddy boots. Merlin, what kind of a Savior is he? Harry's eyes water, but now it's from the ancient stone dust. He wonders if he could be allergic to Hogwarts and not know it after living in her for six years. Another wild insane smile stretches his lips across his face, and now even Hermione looks worried. Harry carefully releases her hand, and walks towards he door. The only thing that's keeping the shadows out. The tension is too much, what are they doing just sitting here, anyway? It's not like the Death Eaters aren't going to find them if they huddle like cowards.

As Harry opens the door, he waits for someone to stop him. To shout, "Potter! What in Merlin's name do you think your doing? Get back in here!" Or even "What are you, stupid?" But all he sees are their grim looks of hope.

They seriously think he can save them. Just a little too short, too scrawny, too boney, boy. He doesn't even shave yet. And what is he going to do? Stupefy Voldemort to death? He can't cast an Unforgivable to save his life. Now he giggles, because that's what he's trying to do: save his skin and the rest of the thirty-two surviving Order/Professor/Student population.

Harry shrugs. He doesn't even know why he should bother. Dumbledore didn't expect, or want him to walk away from the Last Battle alive, and it's not like he really has much to save. Even if he does some how magically pull it off, what does he have to look forward to, anyway? A world full of hypocrites and back stabbing liars, which isn't much better than what Voldemort's offering.

They had already destroyed the ring, the diary, Hufflepuff's cup, Slytherin's locket, Ravenclaw's wand, and all that was left was Nagini.

Or so he had been led to believe.

Harry rubbed his scar, wondering if throwing himself off the next battlement would even matter. Except, "...and either must die at the hand of the other..." And Harry wonders if he would even be able to off himself that way. Probably not.

Because he has a chunk of Voldemort's soul inside of him with all its perks: the ability to speak Parseltongue, among other things.

Things that the first Horcrux, Riddle's Diary, also had.

The final ingredient for a Horcrux was a sacrifice of some sort.

Such as his mother's.

The numbness still clogs his brain, but he can tell that Voldemort is close. He ascends the last stair of the tower, his shoes silently touching the stone floor. He hears rushed footsteps, and pushed himself behind a suit of armor when a Death Eater glides by.

The second one that strides past, isn't so oblivious. A curtain of black hair flows down over her shoulders. A long fingered hand with even longer talon like fingernails removes the mask from her face as she spots Harry.

"Little Hawrry," she coos, and Harry stares back into her heavy lidded eyes, and damns the numbing spell now. All that he feels is a mere spark of what he had felt before. Not even enough to care. Definitely not enough to hate.

If he was shit at casting Unforgivables before, he's dead meat now.

"Bellatrix." Harry replies, more weary than anything. She smiles, and Harry can see every one of her damn teeth. He wonders if that's what he looked like back up in the tower. No wonder they had all looked horrified.

She beckons to him, and Harry steps out of his hiding place. Harry waits for more taunting, more mocking baby talk, but none comes. Instead she turns on her heel and walks away, robe swishing behind her.

Harry almost laughs now, does she really expect him to follow her to his doom?

Yes.

And Harry realizes he won't disappoint her, because he finds himself doing just that.

They walk through the halls, and the Death Eaters part like a black sea, and their bone masks are stoic, blank, and foreboding. He expects jeers and taunts, but still none come.

He sees Malfoy's blond hair, and cold grey eyes stare out at him from behind the sockets of Death's skull that he covers his face with. (And does it really matter which one?) They are chilly and Harry smiles at him.

He's been smiling more today than he has in the past two years. He wonders if this is a good thing.

Bellatrix pushes open the oak doors and sure enough, Voldemort is sitting in the seat that Dumbledore used to occupy, looking for all the world as through it is a throne.

Harry thinks he might look a little better from here. More meat on his evil snaky bones. He approaches, and the muddy fog wears thin, trying to register the splitting pain in his forehead. Harry stands, wand held loosely in one hand, and now Voldemort is only a few inches away. Harry has to crane his neck to meet the garnet eyes, because he's still so small and the Dark Lord is not.

Voldemort reaches out and plucks the wand from Harry's hand, and Harry smiles again, because he thinks he knows what is coming next. The snake man doesn't snap it like Harry thought he might, but slips it into his pocket.

And now the spidery fingers reach from underneath the robe, and lift to cradle his head in a mockery of a caress.

His hands are cold, and Harry thinks he can feel scales like those on a snake's underbelly. One finger moves to twirl a strand of his grimy raven hair.

"Harry Potter, you have no idea what joy the sight of you brings me." Still the spell holds strong, so it doesn't matter. He can't even dredge up enough fire to care that all of his friends will be brutally tortured and killed. Hermione might be raped, McGonagall made into violin strings. Nagini's black length circles them, and Voldemort leans in and whispers in his ear. "So close, you had but one more to go. You have failed."

Harry can't help but wonder if his dry reptilian breath smells like blood.

An arm snakes around his back, and Harry gives up trying to look Voldemort in the eye. He's a good two feet taller than him, and Harry doesn't really want to die with a crick in his neck.

He finds himself staring at soft black voluminous robes, and the heavy weight of his charmed dagger presses against his heart, and he knows this is his last chance at victory. Instead he leans in and smothers his face in the robes wrapping his own arms around the abnormally thin thing in front of him.

Voldemort stiffens, obviously not expecting this reaction. Probably wondering what kind of plot this is. The tears that glinted in Harry's eyes earlier now fall and the boy savior sobs dry body wracking gasps. He can't do this anymore, they all want him to kill, but even killing a Dark Lord that has brutally taken the lives of hundreds of thousands is still murder. And Harry's not a murderer, and never will be.

"Please, please," He cries, not really knowing what he is pleading for. He clutches the Dark Lord's robe for dear life. Voldemort cradles Harry against him. His robes are made of some kind of fine material that soothes his cheeks. He can hear the slow thump of Voldemort's heart beneath his ear.

"Why are you crying, child? Do you beg for the lives of your friends?" Harry shakes his head. He knows no begging or pleading of any sort would be able to save them. "For your own life?" Harry shakes his head harder. "Ah, of course not. You beg for your death." Harry pauses, but Voldemort knows him better than he knows himself, and Harry doesn't even need to nod. "Lovely, sweet, beautiful child. This is something I will gladly grant you." The 13 inches of yew makes an appearance. Harry tries to ignore it as it's cool tip is pressed against his temple. "Avada Kedavra."

The loud rush of sound and green green light, and for a few blissful seconds, Harry is sure he is dead at long last. He feels like he's floating, but forgets that he had already felt this way due to the damn numbing spell. He thinks he might see a bright light, maybe his parents waiting for him with Sirius and Ron.

The figures fade, and he screams, attempting to claw his way back to the light.

He's slammed back into his body so hard that he collapses, and Voldemort drops on top of him. There's nothing but searing pain, cleaving his brain open. His head is on fire, and everything is a pulsing red. He writhes on the ground, thrashing and convulsing. Faint shouts meet his ears, but they don't register.

A pit of vipers squirm in his stomach, in his very blood.

Bloody foam bubbles from his mouth, and there's a presence pressing in, and it feels like his lungs are collapsing. It feels as though molten steel has been injected into every pour, and Harry screams, Voldemort echoing the sound above him.

His soul is being shredded, and there's suddenly not enough space. Harry has never been claustrophobic, even after living in a cupboard for the good part of ten years, but now the fear closes in from all sides. He lashes out at his surroundings, his blunt fingernails coming in contact with Voldemort's body.

His hands rip into skin and cloth, and with inhuman strength his fingers burst through Voldemort's stomach, digging franticly for something in his chest cavity. Something scalds his flesh, and he scrapes his arms on the sharp bones of Voldemort's rib cage. For a second Harry thinks he might feel a slick pulsing muscle, but all his fingers contact is ash.

Everything goes black.

The huddled group of refuges watches in amazement as the Death Eaters scatter from the castle, no longer looking like a flood of destruction, but a swarm of fleeing black insects. Hermione weeps for joy, and she knows Harry has done it. She burst through the door, and her feet pound down the stairs, the rest not far behind her.

She knows he never believed in himself, but she had faith in him.

She sprints to the Great Hall, her feet seeming to know the way. The oak doors are left flung open, and a single figure lies in the middle of the hall, spread eagle and covered in-

Hermione kneels next to him, and gingerly wipes a few bits of the grey stuff off him.

Covered in soot.

She brushes as much of the stuff off of him as she possibly can, but it stirs and sifts up into her nose, making her sneeze. She presses her fingers against his throat, and feels a faint erratic pulse. She cries with relief, and thanks the Gods that Madam Pomfrey made it through the war as the nurse bustles up next to her, tutting and levitating Harry's limp body carefully towards the hospital wing.

Surprisingly enough, everything is still intact, and she sets his body gently down on a bed, his robes trailing black ash on the sheets. She shoos everyone out, and Hermione bites her fingernails with anxiety.

They've lost so much, so many, that Hermione doesn't know what she'll do if she should be without Harry. Ron, Sirius, Dumbledore, Lavender, Fred, George, Mrs. Weasley, Neville, her parents- Hermione chokes, and forces herself to stop. Thinking about it doesn't do any good, and she needs to be calm and logical right now. For Harry.

Dean, looking rather haggard, approaches. He lost his mother Hermione remembers. Gruesome details claw their way out over her memory, images in the Prophet of her strung up by ropes running under her spine from the tree in their back yard. A juniper, Hermione thinks, and shakes her head. Dean's eyes are red rimmed and bloodshot with dark heavy bags under them. Hermione gives him a rather watery smile, and he holds open his arms. She runs to him, sobbing into his torn robes, and he rocks her gently. He smells like mud, sweat, and filth, but she doesn't care. In turn, he doesn't seem to care that she's smeared with ashes that could very well be the last of Voldemort.

They sink down to the ground, and he holds her against his chest, seeming to take strength from being able to comfort her. After her tears dry, and her eyes crust over with salt and other things, she drifts in and out of a fitful sleep.

After what seems like days, but cannot have been more than a few hours, Madame Pomfrey allows them in. The rest have left to contact family, or various other things. Only Hermione and Dean are left waiting.

They drag sore bodies off the ground, blinking rapidly at the too bright hospital wing. It seems blasphemous that this part of the castle should remain pristine when the rest is pitted with scars of war.

Harry is sitting up in bed, a bandage wrapped around his forehead. The soot has been magicked away, but his robes are still rather grimy. His skin is strangely transparent, and seems to glow faintly with a pulsing inner power. The bleached sheets give him the illusion of having a bit of color in his paper thin skin, but Hermione can see his tiny blue veins from a metre away.

She wonders where his glasses have gone, and when he looks up from his careful study of his thin hands, Hermione gasps. His eyes are no longer the vibrant green they use to be, now they're muddy brown. She carefully sits down next to him on the bed, and takes one of his hands in hers. She wonders if it's possible to lose that much weight in just a few hours, because she know his hands weren't quite this thin before.

Upon closer study, she notices that his hair is unnaturally tame for someone who just went through hell and back, and that his eyes aren't really brown but a perfect mixture of green and red flecks.

"What happened to you, Harry?" She asks with a fearful whisper. One corner of his mouth lifts in a smirk so unlike Harry, that Hermione recoils.

"'Mione," He rolls the nickname about on his tongue, as though tasting it. Hermione shivers, because his voice is so much smoother than it was before, and she knows with a blooming panic what has happened. Her hand inches towards her concealed wand, but he catches her wrist with long white fingers.

"Dean," He nods to the dark skinned boy, and Hermione wants to scream at him to run and get help, but her tongue seems frozen to the top of her mouth. Dean just looks relieved, and doesn't seem to notice anything is wrong.

"Glad to see you made it, mate."

"Likewise. Would you mind if I had a moment alone with 'Mione, Dean?" Dean looks rather relieved.

"No problem, see you tomorrow?"

"Of course. Goodnight, Dean."

"'Night, Harry." A swish of robes and Dean leaves to shower and clean up, a warm bed waiting for him.

Harry smiles a rather wicked cold smile, and Hermione attempts to scramble away, only to be held fast.

"'Mione, dear, what could possibly be the matter?" Her eyes are comically wide, showing whites all the way around the iris. Harry chuckles in amusement. Her skin is pasty, and she trembles uncontrollably now. Harry leans in and brushed his lips against her ear. "Don't worry, little Mudblood, I'm not going to hurt you." She shivers.

"W- what have you done to Harry?" And innocent expression drops over Harry's face.

"I'm not sure I know what your talking about, 'Mione, dear."

"Don't call me that, you monster! Where is Harry?" Harry has the audacity to look hurt.

"You wound me, dear heart. I just saved all of you from the evil Dark Lord," Harry says in a mocking tone, tightening his grip about her wrist until she whimpers in pain, "and this is how your greet your savior? With accusations and terror?" His eyes flash, and Hermione renews her attempts to get away, cowering in fear. "Pathetic." He spits.

"Mister Potter! Unhand her this instant!" Madam Pomfrey marches over, looking flustered and angry while holding a tray with an assortment of potions and gruel. Harry drops Hermione's wrist, and smiles sheepishly at her. She scrambles off the bed as fast as she can, tripping over her robes in her haste to get away.

Turning mud colored eyes towards the mediwitch, Harry pouts, attempting to look innocent. She tuts at him, setting the tray down on his lap, and pushing a spoon into his hand. "I know that you have been effected by all of this Mister Potter, but that gives you no reason to treat your friends badly. I want you to eat that, and then take all of these potions. I'm sure you'll feel more like yourself in the morning."

Harry gives her what he hopes is a reassuring smile, but obviously isn't because she continues to stand there looking at him disapprovingly. He glowers at her darkly, but takes the spoon in his hand and shovels some of the gooey nutritious shit into his mouth. She seems satisfied, and leaves him to go help others. As soon as she's out of sight, he spits the shit on the floor, and carefully dumps the potions into his ruined boots beside the bed. The potions are sludgy enough that with any luck, the house elves will mistake them for filth of some kind.

Harry lays back, feeling satisfied as well as exhausted, and snuggles (as much as is possible on the godforsaken hospital bedding) down, preparing for sleep. Thoughts churn in his brain, confused mixed memories and feelings.

Sleep is a long time in coming.

Hermione sits sobbing a few corridors down from the hospital wing, backed as far into a nook as is humanly possible.  
"Miss Granger, what-" Hermione looks up, blood shot eyes and tear streaked cheeks. Professor McGonagall stops, seeing her looking so tormented.

"Miss Granger, would you please follow me?" She says, much more gently, her perpetually harsh face softening just a bit. Hermione sniffs, attempting to put on a brave front, after all she just survived one of the biggest wars of the millennia.

She hopes.

She follows the Headmistress to her office, which is now disorientatingly where Dumbledore's use to be. She's so caught up in her horrified thoughts that she doesn't hear the password, or even really notice the spiraling stairs. She's still dazed as she sits in a wooden chair facing McGonagall's desk.

"What is troubling you so, Miss Granger?" Hermione wants to scream. She wonders what kind of a sick question that is.

"Harry-" She has to stave of another sob that threatens to choke her speech.

"And what has happened with Mister Potter that is causing you such great distress? The last I heard he was well on his way to full recovery." How can they not see that something is so very wrong with that thing that's calling itself 'Harry'?

"H- He's not himself, Professor. He- I think that- that something dreadful happened to him when he defeated You-Know-Who. He-" She can't hold back a sob now, and the tears are back. McGonagall looks worried but tries to smile in a reassuring manner. "He called me..." She trails off, not being able to finish.

"What did he call you, Miss Granger?" Hermione bows her head forward, limp brown hair filthy from going days without washing falling into her eyes.

"He called me Mudblood." She whispers her voice trembling, and McGonagall gasps, looking torn between disbelief and shock.

"I-" Now the Headmistress is angry, and her cheeks get rather splotchy. "We will get to the bottom of this. I'm sure he's just in shock from his ordeal, he's probably just not thinking clearly." Her lips press together in a thin white line.

"His eyes aren't green anymore, Professor." And now the Headmistress looks troubled. Hermione knows that with truly powerful wizards, their aura is reflected in their eyes. McGonagall seems to know this too.

"What color were they, Miss Granger?" She asks sharply.

"At first, I thought they were muddy brown, but when I looked closer- they were still green just- with red flecks..." McGonagall knows this is more serious than a post-traumatic experience. They quickly depart from her office to contain what is potentially an extremely dangerous situation.

When they reach the hospital wing, Harry is sleeping, caught in a dream thrashing his head back and forth, and moaning in Parseltongue.

Hermione shivers, and so does McGonagall.

Hermione's not able to understand what's being said, but it comes out in what sounds like two distinct timbres.

McGonagall seems to notice this too, because she quickly Stupefies Harry, sending him from sleep into unconsciousness. She checks for herself, prying his eyelids open. When she steps back, it's with a grim face.

"Poppy!" She calls, and quickly binds Harry to the bed while waiting for her to arrive. Hermione stares at her best friend, who looks so thin and pale. His skin still pulses with more magic than any being should contain, and even a few hours after seeing him last, it looks more visibly taunt.

Hermione had studied magical overload for her independent study class fifth year. She knows the effects. She can recite them in her sleep. When too much magical energy is contained in one place for an extended period of time, it eats away at it's surroundings; inevitably deforming or destroying them past recognition.

Harry is becoming a monster before their very eyes.

"Yes, Headmistress?"

"Why was I not informed about the changes in Potter?"

"I- I didn't know they were so very important as to notify you, Minerva. I gave him a few droughts to help with what I thought was most likely just a bad bout of post-traumatic stress syndrome." Hermione grimaces at the strong smell of asphodel and sopohorous that catches her nose, and she glances down to see Harry's filthy boots, and picks one up. It sloshes just a bit too much, and she upturns it on the floor. Sludgy brown and purple goo pours out, making a sickening splat on the worn carpet.

Madam Pomfrey sighs, recognizing the potions she knows she should have watched him take. She takes in the bound figure of her charge, and also knows she has made a gross error in judgment.

"Well then, what do we need to do?"

Harry moans, because his entire body hurts. No, not hurts, because 'hurts' is to weak of a verb. Maybe something like 'maimed', 'mutilated', or 'lacerated-from-the-inside-out' might describe his state of being better. Even his toes are sore.  
He wonders what happened.

The first thing he notices is a warm body pressed against his back.

The next is that he's bound to the bed he's laying on.

Shit. What the hell is going on?

My thoughts exactly, Potter.

Now Harry flinches, because he knows that voice, and with absolute certainty who it is coming from.

But how he ended up tied to a bed with Lord Voldemort is beyond him. The last thing he remembers is-

Fuck. Lovely, just fucking lovely. Where are we?

Hogwarts Hospital wing.

What the-

Harry tests the ropes for any give, but knows it's probably futile. If Lord Voldemort cannot remove them, Harry know he probably has absolutely no chance in Hell.

"Ah, Mr. Potter, you're awake I see." Harry growls, recognizing the voice of Madame Pomfrey.

"Let. Me. Up." She mutters a series of charms, and the ropes melt away to release him, but stay attached to the warm body behind him.

He sits up carefully, wincing. He attempts to move away from the bed, but the ache intensifies, and within two metres he's on the floor writhing in agony. The mediwitch supports him, lifting him back onto the bed.

Harry knows he's small for his age, but this is just pathetic.

"What all do you remember, Harry dear?" And her voice is sympathetic, and Harry has the insane urge to strangle her frail neck. As soon as this registers, he turns to glare at the body that he knows is Voldemort.

Only it's not.

It's him.

The same frail stunted body, messy black hair. Even the dull scars peaking through a gap in the back of the hospital gown are the same.

"What the bloody Hell is going on!" When Madame Pomfrey doesn't even bother to chastise him, he knows something is seriously wrong. He checks his own body just to make sure that he's not stuck in some hideously deformed snake thing instead.

He's not.

He can't see Voldemort's face, because the way he's tied, he's facing away from Harry with little to no room to move around.

He doesn't realize he's leaning against the Dark Lord, until he tries to move away again. The ache returns with a vengeance, and he whimpers in unison with the body behind him. Gingerly, Harry places a single finger against his doppelgänger's back, and the pain fades to nothing.

"When You-Know-Who-" There is a snort from behind Harry and a wave of bitter amusement mixed with disgust washes over him, "attempted to curse you, it rebound again. For what ever reason, it forced his soul into your body, merging the both of you into one being." Harry blanches as the memories begin to trickle back. "It took us a week to separate you. We still weren't able to completely isolate your souls into different bodies, and there were some- side effects."

A litany of curses, reaching back twelve generations into the Pomfrey line and a wave of fury stabs at Harry's skull, and he moans because it hurts. It stops abruptly, and the strangest sensation floats across his mind, a wave of comfort/worry/guilt followed by confusion/anger and last glee/delight.

Another wave of fury pounds at his skull like a jackhammer, and Harry collapses against the bed, clutching blindly at the being next to him. He can feel Voldemort's amusement at being able to cause such pain to his enemy, as well as being the only one who can bring it to an end.

Untie me.

Madame Pomfrey seemed frantic, trying to get him to drink this or that, as he thrashed frantically on the bed.

"Release him." Harry whispers when the pain lets up a bit. The mediwitch frowns, she know this is not a good idea, but what else can she do? Harry's begun twitching again, and pink froth is forming at the corners of his lips.

"Finite Incantatem" She whispers fearfully, and the ropes loosen and drop away. Voldemort is up in a flash, red eyes glinting. He's across the room and out the doors before Madame Pomfrey can blink, but a thud lets her know he doesn't get very far.

Harry is screeching, clawing at his skin, and it only take a minute before Voldemort crawls back in, his hospital gown leaving him in a rather undignified state.

Fighting tooth and nail, with a jaw clenched so tightly his teeth grind in a sound worse than the sharpest nails on a chalkboard, the Dark Lord makes his way back to the bed, and wraps his trembling arms about Harry's middle. Identical bodies collapse in a sweaty heap, and green eyes roll back into Harry's skull.

Voldemort scowls so hard that his borrowed face is unrecognizable as human. It's obvious that it pains him to be forced to be near his arch nemesis without choice.

Madame Pomfrey sighs, and sinks down into a chair. She looks tired and worn, but at least she isn't worried about Voldemort getting away now. She doesn't even need to restrain him.

The next time Harry's conscious, his first impression is of somewhere warm and safe. Of course, this doesn't last long, as the next impression is of crimson reptilian eyes that have never been associated with any feeling of security or happiness.  
Except that it's his face that smirks at him, even if Voldemort is the one staring out of it.

Harry frantically attempts to scramble away. A frantic push of stick arms and a animal like whimper. The arms (his arms) hold him fast. It isn't possible that he is stronger than Harry; their bodies are identical. Harry's blunt fingernails claw at the doppelgänger's neck, and crimson blossoms, the same shade as the deadly amused eyes that haunt him.

Harry freezes, watching in a horrible sick fascination as the blood pools in the hollow of his collar bone and runs to make a small puddle on the starched sheets. The bleached cloth quickly absorbs the offered liquid like a thirsty sponge.

And suddenly Harry is exhausted again. To tired to fight, to tired to care, to tired to live.

But he goes on living, because even the most powerful wizard in the world can't kill him.

A sob escapes his throat, and he wants to scream. The only thing I ever wanted, and you couldn't even grant me that.

Thin boney arms, his arms, incase him in a bitter warmth. He thinks he might hear a sigh, but his brain is suddenly muddled.

Lovely beautiful child.

Chapter 2: I left you in that room years ago  
Mud  
DustFactory  
(2/25): I left you in that room years ago  
Voldemort absently fingers the healing wound Harry has inflicted on him. It has already scabbed over, and seems to be shrinking at an abnormal rate. He stares unblinkingly at his new companion.

Really, he reasons with himself, this isn't the end of my life, just a small setback. It might even work to his advantage. The smile that stretches his features is so reminiscent of the Snake Lord, that the temperature seems to drop. Spiders scuttle for cover, and the nearest window pane frosts over.

Harry shivers.

Voldemort decides the best place to start is by assessing the current situation. He carefully settles into a meditative state, and closes his eyes so that only the barest crack of light and color are visible. After a few seconds, defined objects slip away, and fuzzy colorful strands of magic swarm into view like neon insects, outlining every thing in the room, and some things that aren't visible to the untrained eye.

Such as the rather menacing set of triple wards surrounding their bed. The hum they give off makes even him cringe, and that's not good.

He turns his attention to his bond with the child. In his meditative state, he can see the aura that surrounds them, and it isn't a very healthy color. It also has no clear boundaries.

The fallen Dark Lord rubs his temples, blinking hard to get rid of any lingering impressions. Wondering if karma has finally caught up with him, he angrily pushes the rats nest of tangled black hair out of his eyes. Voldemort glares bitterly at the disarmingly frail looking doppelgängers who's hair he has inherited and refuses to behave. Seething ire rages through his body, and he clenches his fists hard enough, that if his nails weren't bitten to the quick, his palms would be a bloody mess.

Voldemort shifts his gaze to the ceiling, knowing that glaring holes in the only thing keeping him alive besides Nagini, who could be dead for all he knows, is probably not the best of ideas. Even if it is extremely tempting.

The Potter creature moans pitifully in his sleep, cringing away from the pulsing poisonous hate that emanates from the Dark Lord. This unwillingly quells him a bit and he tilts his face back down to study the boy with a calmer mindset.

Voldemort is not a stupid man, and has never been one. Even as a small child he showed much more ability than any of his peers; be they magical or muggle. None could defeat him; none could match him. He wonders at his audacity for using the very spell that backfired on him last time on the very same boy and left him bodiless to wonder the earth. Even though he had thought that with the resurrection he had bypassed that bitch's protection, one could never be too careful. What had possessed him? Had he been too arrogant for his own good?

Well, he ponders, glancing down at his thin malnourished body, it could have been worse. It would have taken him decades to gain enough strength to create a second body, and most of his followers would have been old or long gone.

He should have considered that maybe there was more to Potter's protection than just his mother's sacrifice. How many hundreds of lives stain his hands, and how many of those had died sacrificing their lives for their loved ones?

His thoughts are interrupted at this point, because Harry shifts and reaches up to rub the sleep from his eyes. He blinks rather blearily, and reaches towards the small table next to the bed, groping for something. Voldemort sighs, realizing just what he is reaching for, and that the boy's glasses are not on that table, but the one on the opposite side of the bed.

This brings up an interesting thought, and he wonders why he has not needed any kind of sight correction himself. Pondering this new revelation, he absently reaches over and retrieves the glasses for the boy, and sets them on his nose.

Realizing just what he has done, he puts on a blank cold mask, and stares down at Potter. The dark haired boy blinks, and carefully sits up. A conflicted look twists his features.

"Why did you do that?" He asks softly.

"I did not find it prudent for you to be blindly groping about, when we have much to discuss." Harry raises and eyebrow.  
"Much to discuss? What the bloody hell could we have to discuss? You killed my parents!" Harry made a frustrated noise, but took a deep breath. Voldemort continued to stare at him stoically while he continued. "You know what? Screw my parents. Yes, you killed them, but I never knew them and so no matter how much I deluded myself, that was never it. I never knew the countless innocents either, so as much as I wish I could care they're dead, I never really have. You were never really a threat to me until you killed Sirius."

"I never-"

"NO! Maybe it wasn't your wand that cast the curse, but it was your bitch that did it. LeStrange would never have killed him if it hadn't been for you." Harry jabs Voldemort in the chest, much harder than necessary. The Dark Lord ignores it, and continued to stare coldly at him with hellfire eyes. "And after all of that, I was the crazy one! I was the villain! I was only fifteen, and they were already condemning me as the next you!" Harry clenches his fists and seethes, green eyes blazing dangerously under his wild black hair.

"And yet, I was still expected to defeat you! Whether they hated me or not! It was destined! There was even a prophecy about it! Me or you, it said." And now Harry directs his glare down at the hospital issue bedding, twisting the sheets sharply in his fingers.

"I knew I'd never be able to do it, from the beginning." He whispers. "I knew I was doomed, and the world along with it if the old bat Trelawney was to be believed. I tried several times to just end it myself; save you the trouble." Harry traces the scars on his wrists, and glances up at his unwilling companion with a rather wry look.

"But, 'either must die at the hand of the other' and nothing ever worked. Apparently I am invincible except by your hand. I was never any good at the Unforgivables anyway." He glances back down at the sheet. "But apparently you can't kill me either." A dry chuckle.

A slender cold fingertip presses against Harry's scar, and he slowly raises his gaze to meet Voldemort's crimson eyes. The Dark Lord is contemplative, and traces the blemish with his eyes as well as his finger. There isn't any pain this time, just a faint tingling that is actually rather pleasant.

Harry's not sure if he likes the look in the Dark Lord's eyes; one that's very reminiscent of a young Tom Riddle. It's a calculating look, one that seems to dissect while at the same time emanating hunger; as though he is some kind of possession to be taken apart and put back together at Voldemort's will.

"When I first heard of the prophecy," Voldemort begins unexpectedly, fingers never pausing in their mapping of Harry's scar, "My source was only able to deliver to me the first two lines of it. 'The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches. Born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies.' I was furious; a mere child with the power to destroy all I had created.

"Of course there were only two babies that fit that description. Yourself, and the Longbottom boy.

"I dispatched my Death Eaters to take care of the Longbottom child as soon as possible, but your family was under the Fidelius charm and it took a while longer to discover where you were situated. I was on the verge of going after Sirius Black, when Pettigrew dropped into my lap.

"I was ecstatic beyond belief, and decided to dispose of you myself. All Hallows Eve was the night I assembled my small squad of loyal servants and went to destroy the last threat to my power base." A strange shadow falls over his eyes as he's speaking, and a look of horror dawning on his features as if he's remembered something long forgotten. "It was also the night that I had the preparations in place of my seventh and last Horcrux..." He trails off, and his cool hand slides from Harry's scar, moving smoothly down the side of his face.

An images replays in his mind, one that he must have been repressed for all these years. One of the Gryffindor Horcrux, a matching locket to that of Slytherin's. It had... tumbled out of his shirt, where he had been keeping it at the ready for the ritual. He had leaned over, to get a closer view of the child, and it must have brushed the boy. He remembered casting the curse from that bent over position, wanting to see the effects of his favorite curse as much as possible.

The locket... And this child with his distant relation to Gryffindor himself. It had already been charged with Lily's death. Something had gone horribly horribly wrong.

"How could I have been so idiotic?" He whispers, eyes wide. "How could I possibly have made such a grave miscalculation?" Harry drops his face, and his throat becomes tight. He's not really sure why, but he feels like sobbing again. His eyes stay dry, however, as he's already given all the tears he's had to give.

"I had planned to sacrifice you to complete my immorality, but in my haste..." Hands that Harry knows are paler and more spidery than his have ever been caress his jaw and tilt his head back up. "I made you into my seventh Horcrux." And there's a new look in those scarlet eyes, and it's definitely a possessive look this time. It says you belong to me and no one else.

"Dumbledore suspected as much. He explained to me before he died that was the reason I was the only one able to destroy you, as I had a small portion of your soul imbedded in me. It's why I can speak parseltongue among other things."

The Dark Lord nods absently, and Harry thinks this is going rather well for their first real conversation. Neither of them have blown up anything, or tried to strangle the other one.

"What are you going to do now?" Voldemort focuses his attention back on Harry and just smirks.

"Miss Granger, I'm not sure if that's the best idea. You do realize that it's not only your friend that's in there." Hermione pales; color washing from her face like melting paint  
"You mean- He is-" Madam Pomfrey gravely nods.

"They cannot be separated. They experience extreme pain and discomfort, eventually blacking out. Harry seems to be less immune to it than our resident Dark Lord." Hermione still looks pale, but she was put in Gryffindor for a reason, whether others believe it or not. She squares her shoulders and attempts to look brave.

"I don't care. Harry's my friend, and if he has to be stuck with that thing then the least I can do is come see him." The mediwitch gives her a weak attempt at an encouraging smile.

"Well, dear, there are a few things you need to be warned about. We were able to separate them almost completely, but the bodies they occupy are nearly identical to each other. I have reason to believe that Mr. Riddle's body may alter itself a bit over time to better accommodate him, but at the moment there are very few physical differences. Try not to be alarmed." Hermione nodded, showing she understood.

"Also, there is a tri-layer bubble ward over their bed, but only Mr. Riddle is confined to it. Harry and anyone that doesn't wish to harm him or Mr. Riddle are able to travel through it freely. Try not to think harmful thoughts towards either of the occupants." Hermione gives her an incredulous look. The mediwitch sighs, "No matter how hard it may be. If you don't think you can, you'll have to sit outside of the bubble. Mild dislike isn't rejected, and the fact that he's in a duplicate of Harry's body may help, Miss Granger."

Hermione is absolutely positive that nothing can make her hate that bastard any less. She has lost everything to him. If Harry hadn't been so kind as to offer her a room at number 12 Grimmauld Place, she would be homeless. Her house had been destroyed, her parents murdered, and her fiancé killed in a raid.

With the war raging, sweethearts had been getting married left and right. Her and Ron had been engaged, with their wedding date set for a week later. Hermione had figured that if either of them died, she wanted his name to remember him by, or to take to the grave. And now she doesn't even have that.

She grits her teeth and tries to stop thinking about Ron and her parents, because if that doesn't cause harmful thoughts, she doesn't know what will. She tries to picture Harry, and think about all of the good times she's had with him, conjuring happy thoughts. With a final deep breath, she tries to capture all the good will she possibly can, and marches past Madam Pomfrey to see her friend.

"Your Muggleborn is coming." Harry's gaze snaps up, and he hears the clack of determined footsteps. Hermione's bushy head appears around the corner, and a smile splits Harry's face.  
"'Mione!" He scrambles out of bed, and Voldemort reluctantly follows him. They've discovered their bond doesn't require them to be touching at all times, so long as they're in close proximity.

Harry bounds through the wards like they're nothing, but his doppelgänger is forced to stay behind them. They make his skin itch and burn to even stand as close as he is. Hermione smiles back at her enthusiastic friend, and they hug.

Voldemort's temper begins to simmer with a murderous hatred. His hand itches for a wand he doesn't have, and images of all the things he'd like to do to the ugly little girl with a dead unwashed bramble bush for hair snake their way through his thoughts. The wards flair to life and he's forced to take a step back.

Harry pauses in his greeting with his hand clutching his forehead. He glares at Voldemort, and is positively confused about the Dark Lord's reaction.

"What the hell is wrong with you? Sod off, will you? Your going to make my head split open." Voldemort turns his murderous gaze from Harry's friend onto Harry himself.

"I will not allow that disgusting Mudblood filth to touch what is mine!" He hisses, fists clenched white, and face twisted in a dangerous fury. Harry hears a strange sound like the sound the lake makes when it's freezing over. He glances up to see frost incase the window panes, and form on the bubble ward in a few places before it's melted almost instantly.

Harry glares right back, and in the back of his mind notices Hermione clutching the back of his cloths in fright.

"You don't own me." He says low and menacingly. He's his own person, no one has ever owned him, and no one ever will.

"You are mine, Potter." Harry gently pries Hermione's hands off of him and steps back through the ward.

Someone says something in Parseltongue, Hermione isn't really sure who, and the other follows. It quickly begins to escalate from there.

They stand facing each other, fists clenched, and the only thing that defines them is the reddish light that shifts about Voldemort like writhing serpents, and the greenish light that crackles about Harry like thunder storm.

It blends together into an ugly shade of muck where it touches, but doesn't seem to be able to clash. Neither seems willing to back down, and Hermione is afraid to come near either of them. She remembers the reason Harry's was the only one thought to be able to defeat the Dark Lord.

By now they are positively screaming in the snake language, which sounds almost nothing like the soft hiss of a serpent. It's like wind screeching through cracks on a stormy night, and when she thinks the windows might smash and the stones might crumble, Madam Pomfrey appears.

"Mr. Potter! Mr. Riddle! You will cease this instant!" They shift their glares at almost the same instant, intense dangerous eyes blazing from underneath identical mops of hair, but the Mediwitch seems to take the air out of their sails. The stifling magical energy lifts, and the windows unfrosts. "I will not tolerate this in my ward!" And if Hermione though Harry and Voldemort were scary- Well, Hell hath no fury like Madam Pomfrey, and Harry quickly becomes rather sheepish, while Voldemort's face becomes cold and condescending.

"Why hello, Poppy. So nice to see you again." The nastiest look twists Voldemort's face. Hermione shivers with fear, and it is then that she is able see the monster that resided in a duplicate body of her best friend. She will never mistake that creature for Harry. Pomfrey gives him a stern glance, but Hermione can still see the faint blush that mars her elderly cheeks.

Hermione and Harry shared a look.

"Tom Riddle, you calm down and go get back in your bed. Those wards are stronger than your wandless tantrums, and you're not going anywhere." Only the matron would dare to call the most dangerous Dark Lord of all time by his given name.

"You sure you don't want to join me, Poppy? These hospital issue robes are a bit... Chilly." He gave her a rather lewd wink, and made a come hither gesture. Pomfrey's blush intensifies, but so does her glare.

"If you don't knock that off this instant, I'll have to stun you, Tom Riddle."

"What, Potter's body not to your taste? Or is there just not enough juice left in your old bones for little ol' me?" Harry is giving his companion a rather incredulous look, and Hermione is feeling rather disgusted and horrified. Harry seems to finally realize what is going on and a rather pissed expression forms on his features.

"Hey, stop. Leave Madam Pomfrey alone." Voldemort ignores him, and continues to stare the mediwitch down. Harry grabs the Dark Lord's arm, and finally gets his attention.

"What?"

"You need to calm down and stop taking your frustrations out on Madam Pomfrey. What ever is between you, leave it alone. I know your pissed that you have to be confined to a small space with me for who knows how long, but take it out on me if you need to take it out on someone."

"Don't think you can tell me what to do, child. I will do so this once, but be sure I will take you up on your offer." Another ugly smirk twists his features, and Harry nods in a resigned manner. He moves back to the bed and sits cross-legged starring at all of them with half lidded garnet eyes. Harry sighs and turns back to the occupants in the room. He gives them both apologetic smiles and gestures for Hermione to come sit with him.

Madam Pomfrey gives them both a stern look and heads to check on the patients in the main part of the ward.

Hermione gives Harry's companion a nervous glance, but he seems to be meditating, or something to that effect, so she cautiously comes and sits down inside of the wards with Harry.

Even as Harry smiles at her, her attention focuses on his darker twin. Even though his eyes are completely closed now, she can swear that his attention is focused on her. There's something so temptingly magnetic about him, the feeling's similar to the urge she gets to just bite through things sometimes. She's never told anyone about that, and now it overwhelms her.

Usually she's already chewing on something when it occurs, like a rubber straw, or a telly remote button. Most of the time she carries gum with her, so that she has something that's not destructive to let the urge out on.

This time the only thing within reach is her tongue. She clenches her jaw tightly, attempting to stifle it long enough that it passes. It always does.

Suddenly His face is towards her, and His eyes are open. It grows, engulfing her vision, and His eyes are glowing a flaming crimson. She doesn't think she's ever seen anything quite so entrancing, and she's floating. It's so wonderful, His eyes keeping her safe and warm. She's a small girl again, and her mother is singing softly to her, smiling tenderly...

"HERMIONE! SNAP OUT OF IT!" Hermione blinks, and a a searing pain invades her entire lower face and mouth. Something wet is slipping down her jaw, and when she reaches up to wipe it away, her hand comes away coated in blood.

Her eyes go wide, and she begins to tremble. Harry looks horrified, and as Hermione opens her mouth to scream, her teeth pull loose from her tongue with a rather sickening wet sound. A fresh wave of blood pours from her lips, and her high pitched shriek fills the room before she slumps over in a dead faint.

Harry glances back at Voldemort, but he hasn't moved from his meditative position. Not even for her scream.

"She almost bit clean through her own tongue; she's lucky I was able to reattach it at all." Harry has his hands clamped over his mouth, listening to Madam Pomfrey's words. "Do you have any idea what happened, Mr. Potter?"  
"She- she just sat down, and then got this really far away look. I thought she was just remembering better times, when she began to smile. And then before I could stop her she had opened her mouth as wide as possible and-" Harry runs his hands through his hair quickly and repeatedly. The gesture is followed by a rather hysterical giggle. "And then she just slammed her jaw shut on her tongue, and I c- c- couldn't get her to stop..." He shudders, and his eyes are rather crazed. "I couldn't stop her- I tried, I tried to stop her a- and- I couldn't." He whispers, and wraps his arms tightly around his knees, as though he can pull them up and into himself.

"Shhh," Voldemort moves closer to Harry, and whispers quietly in his ear, a silky hiss sliding quietly from his lips. He rubs comforting circles on Harry's back, and Madam Pomfrey stares hard at the Dark Lord.

"And what, pray tell, did you see, Mr. Riddle?" He doesn't bother to shift anything other than his eyes up to focus on the matron.

"Nothing. I was meditating." The smirk that plays around the corners of his mouth suggests otherwise, and Madam Pomfrey know for certain now that the poor girl's accident is completely and utterly his fault.

Except that she has absolutely no way to prove it, and Harry seems to be hyperventilating.

"Tom, Tom, it's so hot in here..." He seems conflicted about whether he should be pissed or not. What ever sense of compassion he has seems to win out, and he lets the name go.

"Shhh, little serpent, everything will be fine." He pulls the boy into his identical lap, and incases him in his arms. Even though their bodies are suppose to be the same, the Dark Lord suddenly seems much bigger than the bundle in his lap. Voldemort presses a finger against Harry's scar and the Gryffindor's glasses frost over.

The entire time, Voldemort's eyes never leave Madam Pomfrey's.

Harry stops sweating and shaking within seconds. When he breaths out however, ice crystals form in the air. His chest stops heaving and slows to a much more normal rhythm. He sighs one last time, and seems to drift off to sleep against his companion's chest.

Voldemort lifts his finger, and the ice crystals melt off of Harry's glasses. His breaths become normal puffs of air.

With a smirk, Voldemort pulls Harry down next to him, and settles in for a nap, his arm still thrown around Harry's waist.

With a final glance in Hermione Granger's direction, Madam Pomfrey wonders if they really can contain Tom Marvolo Riddle. She wonders if they were actually much much too arrogant for their own good.

Merlin help us all.

Chapter 3: I went out into the light &looked around  
Mud  
DustFactory  
(3/25): I went out into the light and looked around  
"Hey, Tom! Come see what we found!" Tom grinds his teeth in anger, bone on bone, but there's really nothing else to do. They've been on this horrible outing since eight o'clock this morning, and lighting bugs on fire with a magnifying glass got boring hours ago.

"What the bloody hell do you want, Bishop?" The fiftieth mesquite lands on Tom's arm, and he suddenly remembers why he was lighting bugs on fire in the first place. With a murderous glare, the insect goes flying and splatters against the nearest tree. Dennis doesn't notice, because he's busy pushing branches out of the way up ahead.

The last branch he pushes aside snaps back and gashes Tom's face open with a particularly sharp twig. Rage boils up under his skin, like lava under a scab. Tom stops, and takes a deep breath. He tries to get his temper under control as he slowly wipes his cheek with his threadbare handkerchief. He clenches his fists tightly and continues past.

His hair is plastered in dark angry commas across his forehead with sweat, and his face is red and glinting with perspiration. Thoughts of what he would like to do to Dennis Bishop and his dirty girlfriend Amy Benson flit though his thoughts like jeweled flies, coalescing into one seething swarm of poisonous stinging rage.

makethemhurt his mind whispers.

butcarefully another part replies.

Ice twists across Tom's face, frigid glee. He straightens and tries to look as imposing as possible, which has never been very hard in Tom's case. Hatred glints from every crease in his face, malice from every pore. Darkness gathers about him, and shadows flicker around his scuffed boots. The very trees sway about him, and very quickly his anger has frozen into a sharp trajectory point of purpose.

Perhaps Dennis will pause up ahead, and maybe his gut will twinge a bit in warning.

Perhaps not.

Tom continues forward now, the branches moving out of his way without him even having to touch them. His strut is sharp but graceful, the rocks don't trip him, tree roots don't catch his shoes. With in a few moments he is approaching Bishop, who is wildly motioning for him to follow him though the small cramped entrance that his disgusting girlfriend is already crawling though.

And there is definitely something unusual about this, all of the children shy away from him. They always have since the very beginning. Tom has no friends, he has no one to confide in, he has no guardians.

And why should he?

He reaches the entrance just as Bishop's scuffed trainers disappear through the entrance. The forest is silent; an abnormally dense cloud drifts over the sun, and the temperature drops as the wind picks up. And if on looks closely, the shadows that curl about Toms feet might be considered vaguely reptilian, and perhaps a bit serpentine. A quiet chattering fills his ears, like the scurry of many legs and the rustle of bodies against rotten summer crisped leaves.

Tom bends down and surveys the cramped brambled hole before carefully pushing himself though.

Harry wakes to a sensation that is quickly becoming familiar; the feeling of a warm body wrapped securely around his. Cool dry breath ruffles the hair at the base of his neck. It's so very comfortable in the bed, and Harry doesn't want to move. However, his bladder insists he try.  
Grumbling, he pushes Voldemort's arm off of him, and rushes to the bathroom as quickly as possible with the horrid bond snapping at his heels the entire way. By the time he has managed to piss, Harry is trembling so hard his knees are knocking together.

He quickly readjusts the hospital issue clothing so that he's as decent as possible, and dashes back to the bed. Voldemort is sitting up, and he's looking bored as though the bond doesn't bother him at all.

Harry knows it's a lie; he can feel his companion nearly trembling with some undefinable horrible jumble of emotions. Harry crawls back into bed, and curls back up next to the Dark Lord because he's still tired. The fact that their bond thing is already angrier than a swarm of wet hornets helps Harry to not think about just who he's spooning up against.

A hand presses down against his side, and Voldemort slowly rolls him over onto his back. Harry hadn't bothered to put his glasses on when he made his mad dash to the toilet, so all he can see though his foggy vision is a black, white, and red blur. The Gryffindor blinks tiredly up at his doppelgänger and the dark hair that falls in an indistinct smudge over his brow stirs Harry's memory.

Something on the edge of consciousness that he think s he might remember, but then he's not too sure-

When Tom pushes his lips against Harry's, it's the strangest sensation. And then he realizes he just thought of Voldemort as 'Tom' and that feeling of a memory just out of his grasp washes back up through his thoughts.

But then there's teeth on his lip, and Harry almost giggles when he realizes they're his teeth more than the Dark Lords, and that he shouldn't be surprised to find out they're just as blunt as his own.

Except that Voldemort keeps pressing when Harry refuses him entrance, and the sharp pain of a split lip leaves him gasping. Which is all the invitation that the Dark Lord needs. Slick tongue with a copper flavor runs along the inside of his cheek. Harry has the insane urge to lift his hand and press it against the Dark Lord's face, and so he does. But he doesn't push him away; just explores with light touches.

A cold hand grasps the one making it's way across Voldemort's stolen face and fingers longer and thinner than his own twin about his own just long enough to press Harry's hand against the boy-saviour's own face. And Harry can feel their tongues twine and twist like serpents through his cheek, and it's the most amazing and shocking feeling yet.

Before Harry can push his darker counterpart away, Voldemort pulls back himself.

And Harry is gasping and gasping and his lip is bleeding, and he really really wants a shower, but he think he might be okay- So long as he doesn't think about it.

Madam Pomfrey comes bustling into their room at that moment, and Harry thinks he's never been more grateful. Before she can get too close he sucks his bottom lip into his mouth, and wipes at his chin to make sure their is no evidence.

Harry can feel a deep amusement radiating from behind him and permeating his back like a happily crackling fire might, except without any of the warmth. He shivers, before giving the mediwitch his attention.

"We may have found a solution."

Harry's heart skips a beat, and it's like the sun has risen and when he sees Hermione poke her head around the corner and wink at him, large tomb and all, he can't help but grin.

Voldemort sits and considers all that he's hearing. No one is really speaking to him, they all carefully avoid his gaze and seem to think that if they don't look at him, he might cease to exist.  
The girl with bracken hair and and a mouth that moves faster than he ever thought possible (especially after she accidentally almost removed her tongue) is sitting in front of his Harry and jabbering on about their plan that the Dark Lord is sure is prone to failure. In fact, he thinks it's more than just apt to fail, it will probably cause some significant damage on it's way down.

"No."

She pauses and gives him a shocked glance, and Voldemort thinks he might see the effects of a older reduction spell shimmering over her front teeth.

"W- What?" She looks about ready to piss herself and clamps her mouth shut defensively.

"I said, 'No.' I will not place myself in danger just because you have a foolish and absurd plan that you have no proof will even work." The girl, Granger or something, blanches and tries to flip to a page to point out some nonsense she probably already explained quite a few times. However her fingers tremble and she leaves damp finger prints on the edges of the pages. "I will not put my life in the hands of an inept little girl with no experience or prior knowledge in the delicate area of Soul Magic!" By now she is shaking so hard that the book looks like it might be taking a tumble off her knobby knees.

The Dark Lord is so engrossed in glaring holes in her head, that he doesn't see the fist flying out of nowhere. And suddenly he has a split lip to match Harry's, and his eyes are flaring as though a match were struck and dropped into a bottle of absinthe.

"Do not touch me, child." His voice is low and sharp, and Harry's vision narrows down to a point. "I will not warn you again."

"Just because you know so goddamn much about Soul Magic because you split your sick dirty little soul into so many bloody parts doesn't give you the right to be condescending to Hermione! She's only trying to help! I don't see you trying to figure a way out of this mess!" Harry's face has acquired two deep spots of color high on either cheek bone, and Voldemort can't help but be transfixed by them.

The boy's hair has tumbled over his scar, and his chest rises and falls rapidly. The hospital issue clothing is definitely not helping Voldemort's thoughts with it's skimpiness.

He absently licks the blood from his lip, and gives a faint smirk when he realizes that Harry's eyes have followed his tongue. He thinks coloring in Harry's face might be more of a blush now, and the fire behind his eyes maybe something a little different.

"Well? What do you have to say for yourself?" Harry's chest continues heaving, but instead of making the Dark Lord angry, it stretches his smirk father across his face.

"Bring me any books I require, and I will find the solution myself, if that is what you wish." He glances between Hermione, who has for some reason been left alone again with him even thought it's completely obvious she's more scared of him than anything else in the world. He snaps his teeth at her, and she nearly runs out of the room, stumbling only once.

Harry continues to glare at him, but Voldemort smiles sweetly, and his raven haired duplicate makes a nasty sign with his hand and turns around so his back is to the Dark Lord.

The dark wizard chuckles and leans down to drop a kiss onto the boy's neck. Harry roughly shoulders him away, and Voldemort's chuckle becomes louder and more amused.

After convincing Madame Pomfrey to bring him what lookes like more than half the library, Voldemort settles back to start his research. Harry is too busy with his emotional turmoil to really pay attention long enough to do anything helpful, so with a final glare, the Dark Lord tells him to lay down and take another nap if he can't make himself useful. Harry, having spent what he considers too much time for his own good napping, decides that he's actually rather famished. Normally, he figures Madam Pomfrey would never forget to force feed them, but with all of her other patients to attend to, he really isn't surprised.  
He doesn't really want to venture too far away from Voldemort, as he doesn't want to disturb any potentially good research by making the bond hurt them both. He also doesn't want to call the mediwitch away from her tasks.

Sometimes Harry wishes he cared about other people's well-being just a little bit less.

So the green-eyed wizard tries to sit patiently and wait. He's not sure for what, but he doesn't want to take the chance of disturbing anyone.

Harry is so confused at the moment that he doesn't know what to think. His brain is tying itself in knots, and his stomach is doing cartwheels. He wonders what could have possessed him to allow the Dark Lord to kiss him.

And no matter how hard he tries to convince himself that he didn't... He knows that he still- He still-

Lying to yourself never helped anyone. His mind whispers.

He still liked it.

A blush heats his cheeks, and he's glad that Voldemort is engrossed in his book, and isn't paying attention.

This man has killed hundreds of innocents, and tortured countless more. He has been the bane of my existence since before I was born

And he still liked it.

Damn these hormones.

Eventually his stomach begins to grumble about its lack of food, and within a few minutes it's loud enough that Voldemort gives him a sideways glance with a raised eyebrow.

Harry gives him a rather sheepish twist of his mouth (not quite a smile), and Voldemort shakes his head in an almost affectionate way. He closes his eyes for a moment, and within seconds Poppy is bustling through their door with a tray that two steaming bowls of something that might be a little better than the typical nutritious porridge that patients are usually fed.

She sets two bowls down and Harry sniffs his, but realizes that he was definitely wrong. It's the same grey mush that he usually gets.

Madam Pomfrey glares at him, seeming to know what he's thinking, and then bustles back out.

Harry isn't sure if he should thank Voldemort or not, as he's sure that the mediwitch materializing with what could debatably be called food is not exactly a coincidence.

His stomach grumbles again, and the green eyed boy decides that he is hungry enough even to eat Madam Pomfrey's concoctions. He lazily spoons the mush into his mouth, and even though he had been far from tired earlier, his eyes begin to droop. He finds the half empty bowl being taken from his hands and placed back on the night stand.

"How did you- You've drugged me-" He yawns and can't help but settle back into the pillows as darkness settles over his mind.

"Shhhh, sleep now little one."

Tom crawls out the other side of the tunnel and there is a sharp pain in his scull and his vision dims before dropping off into blackness.  
shouldveknown

When he comes to, his hands and feet are tied together and he's settled in the middle of a giant pile of prickly dry brush. Thorns scrap his skin just about everywhere, and there is blood tricking down into his eyes from a throbbing cut on his head. Tom tries to cry out, but they've gagged him with something that tastes like soiled socks.

Dennis and Amy are standing over him, and he glares up at them. Tom is furious, but then they start to speak.

"We overheard Mrs. Cole talkin' to the preacher. He said he thought you were possessed by the Devil himself, or you wouldn't be able to do all a them crazy things. He told her that she needed to be getin' rid a you, or else bad things might be happin' to all the rest a us. She said she couldn't be doin' that, so we decided we're tired of you and we'll do it ourselves."

Tom glares even harder at Dennis, wishing he was dead. Unfortunately his magic doesn't seem to want to cooperate, and nothing happens.

"Not so scary now, are you Tom Riddle?" Bishop grubs around in his pocket, and finally finds what he has been looking for. A worn pack of matches that are mostly bent, broken, and smeared with dirt. When Tom realizes what his fate is to be, his eyes widened. There is no way he is going to die like this, burnt alive in a disgusting little hole in the ground where no one will ever tremble at his feet again, and his name will be forgotten.

"Denny, do you really think-" Amy looks like she might be having second thoughts about their plan. It's all well and good to say that you're willing to kill someone for being 'possessed', but to actually go through with it is something completely different.

"Oh, belt up Amy." The girl snaps her her mouth shut with an audible click. "Think of all the bad stuff 'e's done. When Jill went 'un hung 'erself, who do you think made her do it?" Tom grimaces and Bishop continues, but Tom isn't listening anymore. He can tell this might get serious rather quickly, and he is trying to muster enough of his power to keep it from getting to that point.

The dirt stirs and a low breeze that shouldn't be possible catches his sweat damp hair. It brushes across the cuts the thorns have left on his skin and stings just a bit. Tom easily ignores this.

The soft chatter that had followed him through the tunnel and dropped below hearing rises just a bit, and Tom thinks he might see eyes reflect against the darkness. The scratch of small legs against stone grows louder yet, and the twist of many serpents' bodies through the earth is added to the mix. The swish of rat tails, the chitter of teeth; the buzz of wings, and a sound that might be pincers clacking all combine into one horrific symphony of nightmarish music.

Dennis Bishop has stopped now, and Tom thinks he might at last have noticed that he's in much more danger than he had ever imagined.

"Amy, do you hear that?" She shakes her head, but her whole body is strung with tension, and Tom wonders what exactly Bishop thinks he can hear. "Blimey-" Except that he never finishes his sentence, as Amy lets out a blood curdling scream.

"Spiders!" and that's the last coherent word Tom ever hears her mutter, and Dennis' eyes widen comically as he begins to frantically scratch at his own skin.

"What've you done to me, you freak!" His voice cracks, and ends with a squeal. This last insult is Tom's least favorite name, and it gives him the last burst of strength to make his bonds disintegrate into nothing. Tom grins gleefully, a cold joy crackling around the edges of his heart. Tom watches them struggle and screech like undignified vermin, and for the first time in a while he knows happiness.

Tom sits and watches them struggle, and if he concentrates, he can even see the faint silhouettes of his creations scrabbling over their unprotected flesh. They crawl into little Amy Benson's ears and mouth, they scuttle under Bishop's worn clothing and burrow into his skin. They sink their teeth and pincers of all shapes and sizes into the most sensitive spots they can find. Dennis claws at his eyes, and Amy looks close to passing out.

Tom is actually rather surprised she hasn't yet. He hums quietly, and leans gingerly against the wall, nursing his scraped and bloodied flesh. He runs his tongue over his lip and catches a drop of coper liquid that has collected there.

It leaves a tangy taste in his mouth, and Tom grins as Bishop's eyes role back into his head and he begins to convulse. Maybe the outing wasn't such a bad idea after all.

Harry jolts awake and barely manages to lean over the edge of their shared bed before emptying the entire contents of his stomach onto the floor.  
Chapter 4: I have come back to the darkness  
Mud  
DustFactory

Whole shit batman, I'm updating. After three years. This is amazing.

WARNING: Extremely weird graphic sex. Snake play and other insane dark lord things.

(4/25): I have come back to the darkness

Harry sobbed silently for the child that had been Tom Riddle; evil, sadistic, vicious little Tom Riddle, but still a child. That anyone could be so cruel as to attempt to burn him alive in a cave made Harry bend just that little bit in sympathy towards the cold hardened soul of Voldemort. Harry understood what growing up in a place where no one loved you beyond your usefulness felt like. Harry also understood the dark urges to hurt those that hurt you.

Harry had used his magic defensively as a child; Tom Riddle had bent his to be a razor edged blade of destruction and malice.

Harry's thoughts sharpened to reality, as the pungent tingle of the hospital's cleaning charms kicking into effect and the vomit vanished leaving behind a faint aseptic whiff. The presence behind him swarmed back up into existence as he wiped the traces of sick off his mouth. The throbbing red link to Voldemort was now more prominent in his mind than ever; previously it had been buried deep in his consciousness away from day-to-day notice. Now it consumed him.

When Harry finally lifted himself off the edge of the bed and turned around, Riddle was reading and seemed to be ignoring him completely as though he didn't exist; Harry would have believed it too, if it hadn't been for the mixed emotions resonating through the bond twisting his own thoughts into even tighter knots.

With out a word, the Dark Lord handed Harry a glass of water sitting on the bed stand and continued to read as though nothing had happened. Harry wondered if Voldemort had seen what he was dreaming.

Gratefully the green-eyed boy gulped down the cold liquid and set the glass down before turning back to his doppelgänger, deciding not to mention his dream.

"Any luck?" Harry quietly asked, settling back against the pillows to look over the other boy's shoulder. A barely audible sigh escaped Voldemort's lips. Diagrams were sketched out on a sheet of parchment with tiny cramped runes that kept chasing each other around the paper in jagged savage motions. Voldemort stabbed at one of the groups with his quill that was getting particularly violent and smearing ink around the page.

"We're the only case where something like this has ever occurred, and none of this rubbish is any good. I need the books back at the base in my personal library." Harry shifted closer to his body-twin to ease a bit of the itching from the bond that seemed to be acting up with Voldemort's irritation.

In what seemed like an almost subconscious move, Riddle wove his fingers though Harry's mop at the back of his neck, twisting the thick mess between identical fingers. It slid through his fingers like spider silk, and Harry knew he should be disgusted by the touch, but it took the edge off the bond, and just fell right.

"But is it possible? Do you think that we could separate this bond… thingy?" Red eyes gave him a rather condescending glance for his ineloquent grammar.

"This 'bond-thingy' is very complex and unknown; from what I can conjecture, my soul shard had almost completely integrated with your own soul over the course of your life. However, still being a part of my soul, it never stopped trying to re-connect to with me. Hence our previous weak bond." The hand that had been twisting Harry's mop slipped up the side of his face and brushed against his scar once more.

"When the curse rebound again and ripped my soul out of my body, the shard was the closest thing with a physical body and it was drawn instantly towards it with such force that-" A couple of the runes on the page collided in a cataclysmic explosion of ink and then reformed, tugging at each other, but unable to pull their entwined bits apart. "Our souls are so blended together at this point that I have a difficult time seeing and end and a beginning to them. In fact, it's almost completely seamless. I don't see them coming apart any time soon."

Harry was so entranced by the movement of Riddle's hand that he barely heard the last bit of his statement.

"Ah." Harry attempted to articulate, as Voldemort's fingers tugged sharply on his earlobe. Amusement thrummed through his brain, and sly crimson eyes slid his direction. The tug on his earlobe came again, this time a bit sharper. Harry gasped unbidden, and nails scored down the side of his throat.

"See for yourssselfff…" Voldemort whispered, voice slipping into parseltongue at the end. Harry felt a nudge against his mind, and the crimson overlaid his vision for a second, before suddenly a strange duplicity clouded his senses, and it was the absolute most bizarre thing he had ever felt; suddenly he could see himself, glazed green eyes, glasses and cursed scar. He'd gotten so use to the crimson snake eyes staring out of his face, that it was a bit shocking to see himself normally.

"Watch closely." And the eyes closed to half-mast, and suddenly motes of color swarmed into view, buzzing energetically in multi-colored wonder. He could see the magic currents and how they flowed around each other, swirling around physical objects like water around rocks. Hogwarts literally breathed magic.

Riddle glanced down at their tightly pressed together forms, and Harry could feel his face flush a bit at just how close they were.

At first he could see nothing, and then suddenly he realized that it was just too intense for his eyes to comprehend, because when Riddle narrowed his eyes even more, the intensely wicked colors overwhelmed their sight.

Voldemort's jagged red aura curved brilliantly across their laps, sharp offensive points that focused to razor tipped blades and then bent like spider legs and slithered back under the main bubble of magic. Harry's magic was an electric green that cackled tightly under and through the layer of red, defending them while the red stood guard. The emerald curled protectively across their skin, so tightly that it seemed their very flesh glowed from the inside. Both colors meshed together seamlessly, creating a dangerous and beautiful aura.

It made Harry feel extremely turned on. At least Harry thought it did, it might be the echoing arousal from the Dark Lord. The thought broke the shared vision, and brought Harry back to the present.

"My little serpent," Voldemort whispered in parseltongue, words slipping through his teeth like cold wind on a stormy night, "What are you thinking about that has you so warm and your eyes so dilated?" A fingernail traced the edge of his eye, skimming carefully over the glossy white part off the globe. And all Harry could see was the way that tongue wrapped sensuously around his teeth, perhaps a bit sharper than his own. Riddle's other hand traced up his arm, digging vicious red marks into the pale transparent skin. Harry was pulled into Voldemort's lap like a limp ragdoll, secured against his darker twin's chest.

One arm gripped him under his chin, yanking his head back and exposing his delicate throat to the red-eyed creature above him, the other hand still dangerously close to his eye.

Cold breath ghosted across the column of his throat, so cold that it frosted a light layer of crystals down the skin. Harry whimpered, and grabbed the twisted blanket beneath him, clawing at it with blunt fingers.

"Oh how I wanted you, just like this, mewling for my touch, crying out in pain for release, begging me for more." The finger in his eye increased its pressure. "I could rip this from your skull and you would be powerless to stop me. I would crush the sweet juices from it and taste your essence." Harry panted, gasping for breath. The red beacon in his mind once again consumed his vision, tinting the room a bloody red, until all he could see was crimson. "And you would beg me for more, because you are me, and I am you. We are one being, our souls sewn together for eternity, and eternity it will be, as I don't plan on letting you off that easily. You are Mine." The last bit sizzled against his ear, freezing the tiny hairs and chilling his eardrum. Harry shivered uncontrollably, and the chattering of the insects he had heard in his dream began to chew at the edges of his hearing. The ghostly touch of serpents slid up his thighs like many scaled fingers, twisting against his skin and under it.

Black fear twisted his mind, a cold icy infection that slinked through his veins. His body recognized the magic as his own, however, and didn't repel it. Harry accepted it and drew it in like he was starving for it. Starving for someone to surrender to, someone to own him. Someone to take away the responsibility of being Harry Potter.

The serpents became heavier and more substantial against his skin, their thick bellies coiling against his hands and thighs. Voldemort's tongue and agile hands joined them, slipping easily under the flimsy hospital gown. Sliding against his flesh, pressing here, pinching there, and dipping into his belly button. Harry's chest heaved and he squirmed as the metaphysical snakes twisted their way closer, between his legs. They slid over his boxers at first, joining their master's hands on his hollowed out stomach.

Pleasure twisted through his body, and he twined himself as tightly around Voldemort as he possibly could, asking for something he didn't know how to ask for. A rumbling chuckle vibrated against his back, and a thick length pulsed against his backside, identical to the length that was hardening against Harry's own will.

The serpents danced around the edges of everywhere he didn't and did want them to be. They twisted in between the two, inching their way down between Harry's cheeks. The boy gasped, arching off of his captor, but barely enough to provide any escape, as he was wound so tightly around Voldemort that it was impossible. Flat noses nudged at his crack, his ears, his lips.

"Please…" Harry whimpered in parseltongue.

"Please, what?"

"I need–"

"What do you need my little one?" The undulating rhythm of serpent scales seemed to pause against his flushed skin, waiting for a response.

"I need you, please Tom!" A sadistic smile split Voldemort's lips, baring dangerous glinting teeth. A wave of power drew the snakes back into motion, flat noses nudging against his openings, small tongues flickering against his flesh.

Harry thought he might die, as the crimson continued to wash over him, filling him and drowning out his green. The pressure slowly increased against his hole as noses bumped and squirmed in between his arse cheeks.

Harry keened as the first head pushed into him, first a trickle and then in pulsing waves. Snakes licked down the back of his throat, curling down his esophagus and into his stomach and lungs. Being magical, they didn’t impede his breathing, but gave him an extreme sense of fullness. Small ones, big ones, slid into place as though they belonged, squelching into cracks and pressing against things he never knew he had.

Harry could feel them climbing into him, pushing their muscular bodies into his channel. The slow trickle of increasingly larger serpents into his anus stretch him beyond belief. Harry groaned, writhing against the hard body beneath him, and he could duplicate pulse of arousal from his other. The straining erection beneath him felt like another serpent head as it slid down his arse, wet with precome.

Harry’s erection strained and dripped, begging for attention and receiving only fingertips brushing against its head. His spine bowed as he felt the circuit complete inside of him, the snakes that had crawled into his stomach meeting the ones that had crawled inside of him the opposite direction, and it felt as though there was a great pulsating mass massaging all of the most intimate parts of his body. He would scream, but the pleasure was beyond words. Voldemort moved Harry’s hand on top of his stomach, pressing down into it. Harry’s length got impossibly harder, filled with blood a deep angry red. 

“Can you feel my magic shifting inside of you? It’s filling you to the brim, stretching every part of you that no other could ever reach and fill. You will never know another able to give you this, and you will forever feel empty without me.” Magical serpents twisted and ungulated under his fingers, pressing up into the skin of his stomach, a seething mass of living creatures under his flesh. He could feel them moving inside of him, and he’d never experienced anything so intense before. 

“Ready, my sweet? Are you stretched and aching for me?” Harry tried to nod, but his higher brain functions had all but shut down at the extreme over stimulation. 

With out any warning, Voldemort flipped them over slammed up into Harry with inhuman strength, the snakes parting for their master to make room for the extra intrusion. 

This time, Harry did scream.

Harry felt like he could feel the length inside him scrape his spine.

Voldemort silenced Harry by bending his head back and clamping identical lips over his while swallowing the noise like an elixir. Blood gritted between their teeth, dripping down saliva-wet mouths.

The slap of flesh in between their bodies was delicious; Voldemort’s cock brutally forcing more of the magical serpents up into Harry’s body. Each thrust pushed them in farther, seemingly only an extension of his length. Harry felt like he was being fucked all the way up through his mouth. 

Tears spilled down his face from the pain of being forcefully filled to such an extreme. It was an intense burning stretch, his lungs slowly suffocating him because he was unable to deflate them enough to pull in more oxygen. Black spots danced across his crimson-clouded vision like insects.

Harry could feel his veins bursting as the magic attempted to find other places to fill, and his skin felt alive with the rippling swell of slim bodies. Harry’s muscles began to spasm violently as the blackness filled in his vision. Harry wondered if this was what death really felt like. 

Just as Harry knew he would pass out, Riddle began angling his strokes downward, towards a knot of nerves that overloaded Harry’s body to the point of replacing the black swarm with a blinding white. A hand pumped Harry’s erection in time with the thrusts, and orgasm clawed its way from his belly up through his teeth and he exploded.

Lips like bruised cherries and eyes like death, both bodies shivered violently with the sweet sweet contact. Voldemort could not restrain himself for much longer after having watched his pet be so stretch from within, and with a thrust that slammed Harry down into the bed so hard the frame slid a few inches on the floor, he came with a violent shudder.

As they both lay on the bed, sweating and panting, still curled together like the snakes that had filled Harry, the serpents dissipated into Harry's blood stream, returning to their shared magical core.

Harry felt suddenly deflated and empty, like he was missing something vital. Shivering, he squirmed as close to Voldemort as possible, trying to get some of the warm magical feeling back.

Voldemort ran hands down his stomach and thighs, chuckling once more. Harry knew at this point that those hands had to be longer and thinner than his own. Voldemort's body was already adapting to fit him better physically.

Harry twisted to look into burning red eyes, hooded and dark with lust. Riddle's pupils were dilated to the point of almost being round, and his face was flushed with exertion. Harry slid his fingers through a mop of hair that was a bit wavier than his own, the strands settling back into place almost neatly.

Mine.

He could hear the word echo through their bond, and Harry had never known anything to be truer. The scores and scratches that marked his body said nothing less. Fingerprints blossomed across his skin, red now, but darkening quickly. Harry was sure he could feel a perfect set of teeth marks pressed into his throat, displaying to the world what he already knew.

He was stuck with Tom Riddle for bad, ugly, and the worst.

Chapter 5: To bask in your rancid creaking rhythm  
Mud  
DustFactory

(5/25) To bask in your rancid creaking rhythm  
Staying at Hogwarts is no longer an option.

The way that the pair is being treated, and vice versa, is coming to some sort of horrible crescendo. No one knows how to act around the two, with Harry almost constantly wrapped around the Dark Lord. Riddle in turn pets his head affectionately, before tugging sharply on one messy strand, or rubbing circles into the golden boy's bare skin before dragging the edge of a nail across Harry's flesh, leaving fresh red score marks in vaguely recognizable shapes for the world to see.

The survivors of the war have been so busy taking stock of who's alive, who needs medical care, who's dead and gone, along with the state of the government and who's going to run it, that Voldemort and Harry have all but been forgotten for a few hectic days. However, now that the magical community has managed to settle itself into a patchy temporary system, and most of the living and deceased have been accounted for, people are asking the question that no one has wanted to ask up until this point:

What's to be done with the Dark Lord and their Chosen One?

So many people are embittered over the result of the long bloody war that they don't even want to bother trying to solve the problem fairly.

Most people figure their savior is lost to the darkness; that Tom Riddle's corrupting presence has killed off whatever innate goodness the young hero had. And after all, is he really even worth their time? He hadn't even managed to fulfill his destiny; Lord Voldemort is still alive and well. The majority wants Harry and Voldemort Kissed or locked away in the depths of Azkaban forever.

A small portion wants to find a way to separate the two, but in most cases it's a weak protest on their part. The entire magical community is so tired that no one really cares about anything besides getting a little piece of revenge for their dead loved ones.

Voldemort knows from experience what combustive elements are required to incite and angry mob, devoid of all logic and humanity, and ready to lynch the first thing that crosses their path. The angry mutterings are not far from turning into exactly that; and he is afraid that even though he can survive a teenage boy (prophesized to be his equal or not) he might not survive the entirety of the rest of magical Britain coming down on his head, especially in his weakened state and having to protect his new pet.

Speaking of his pet, Harry is currently sleeping with his head and arms pillowed against the Dark Lord's stomach, air wheezing lightly though his nose as he breathes shallowly in and out. Riddle's hand is tangled tightly in the black mop, woven into the insanity that is the green-eyed boy's dirty mess of hair. He's given up trying to pull the pieces into some kind of order, and settles for massaging the slightly oily, eggshell-thin skin under his fingertips. Harry mewls or winces with each tug in his troubled sleep.

The first thing to do is to remove the containment bubble around them that keeps him from leaving the area. Really, it shouldn't be that difficult, as the staff has been so distracted that they've forgotten to strengthen the small ward. It also helps that being an heir to one of the Founders means that magic tends to work more in his favor while in Hogwarts castle.

Allowing his body to go lax, Voldemort focuses on the bubble of magic, and easily recognizes the way the ward is built. It has five focus points, four bricks around their bed in the floor. The bricks are underneath the carpet, and the staff probably thinks they are being clever by using hidden focus points, but really. The fifth is an invisible floating point above their bed that acts as the keystone for the top of the bubble. There is none underneath, but the brick is sturdy enough that it doesn't really need one. Blowing a hole through the solid brick floor is even beyond him without a wand, especially in his weakened state.

Very carefully he threads his magic up against each point, making sure not to set off the ward alarms. Even though it is made to repel him while letting Harry though, the creators have obviously not realized just how intertwined his and Harry's magic has ended up. Pulling magic from the boy sleeping against him, he is able to examine the ward with out being rebuffed.

Temporary magic like the ward around their bed draws from its creators. It therefore reflects the castors' current magical status, and all three of the creators are obviously strained and tired. One of them had obtained a magical injury during the short battle, and as such there is a weak point around the base of the northern focus directly to his left. Once he notices it, he wonders how he had missed it before. It is like a snarl in the smooth weave of magic, and he easily weaves a tendril of Harry's magic through a few frayed loops.

Focusing on his task at hand, he misses hazy unfocused eyes blinking open at him.

What are you doing? Harry's mental whisper dances across the surface of his thoughts, light as a feather, trying not to startle the Dark Lord.

Quiet! He snaps, If you break my concentration, you insolent brat, I will break your fingers. Harry recoils a bit from the frostbitten tone, and his scar flairs smartly.

Red eyes flashed towards him for a split second, an exasperated frown twisting Voldemort's face. Watch and see. Voldemort's mental voice is an icy shadow that twists a little bit of light from Harry's soul each time it skitters through his thoughts.

The Dark Lord refocuses his complete attention on the damaged section of ward and very delicately twists the threads and then slices clean through the most frayed strand. The bubble ward disintegrates before their eyes, drawing back in on itself as though it has been too tightly stretched over an unforgiving surface for too long.

MOVE! Voldemort screams in Harry's mind. Adrenaline forcefully pumps through Harry's veins, quenching a thirst for action that he hadn't realized was there until now. In all reality both of them are adrenaline junkies of the worst sort.

Before the ward can finish unraveling, Riddle digs his skeletal fingers into Harry's arm and forcefully drags him off the bed. Harry stumbles, catching his shin on the edge of the metal bed frame. Riddle doesn't pause, violently bruising Harry's upper arm in the process. A vicious fire consumes the Dark Lord, his magic offensively focused in front of him in jagged points, hissing and spitting like a cobra ready to strike the first thing that crosses it's path.

In a whirling mass of magic and hospital gowns, they barrel through the doors to their personal room in the hospital wing. Madam Pomphrey shrieks in outrage, and fires a stunner at the two escaping boys.

Harry clenches his eyes closed, and as Voldemort throws open the doors to the main ward and smashed his shoulder against the doorframe. Pain blossoms down his arm, but the Dark Lord doesn't seem to care.

"Where are we going, you snakey bastard?!" Harry cries, frantically trying to keep up with the crazed Dark Lord that's sprinting inhumanly fast. His legs feel like they've been de-boned after sitting in bed for so long. The Dark Lord doesn't even spare him a though, mercilessly swinging them around corners at breakneck speeds.

Green eyes furiously stare at the black head in front of him. A strong sense of loyalty to his friends seems to be dragging him in the opposite direction, tearing him in two.

Harry wonders when his friend's half began to shrink.

Or even when Voldemort ended up owning more than half of him.

It's hard to forget the bone-chilling red fog that has invaded his senses, curdling like blood at the corners of his mind. Harry feels like he should have some kind of righteous anger over the fact that Voldemort is basically kidnapping him.

It's hard to kidnap someone who comes willingly. Voldemort viciously sneers in his mind. Shame burns like acid in the back of Harry's throat.

A blood-boiling curse fries a chunk of Harry's fringe, just barely missing his eye. Startled forcefully out of his thoughts, he snaps his head around, and sees the last person he ever thought to see lobbing dark curses at his head: Hermione.

Her face looks a bit horrified, as though she was the last person she thought would do something like that as well. Harry figures that the look might also have meant (or at least he hopes) that she was aiming for the Dark Lord in front of him.

Voldemort doesn't even flinch, but his head whips around like the laser on the silencing scope of a muggle sniper gun, Harry thinks, and when his vicious gaze hones in on the Muggleborn witch, all of his magic launches itself in her direction. It curves up around the pair of wizards, sharp points like poison tipped arrows and fangs meet their target with precision, slamming biting energy through Hermione's upper chest.

The girl bends backward at an unnatural angle, curving up… Voldemort wrenches Harry around another corner, as the back of the witch's head makes contact with the stones. Harry screams and tries to struggle to get away, but the iron band of fingers around his arm are buried in his skin tighter than shackles.

"Hermione! Let me go! Herm-"

"You would run back to the one that just cast a blood-boiling curse at you?! Insolent brat, shut up and RUN!"

Harry whimpers a bit, his head on fire.

At this point they must be flying, stones pounding under their feet, and the wind tugging their hair backwards. Harry doesn't think he's ever run so fast in his entire life. Rounding the last corner, Riddle hauls him into a dingy girls bathroom. The light is grey, washing out Voldemort's skin to a sickly shade. Harry imagines he doesn't look much better. Wild tendrils of damp hair curl across the Dark Lord's forehead and behind his ears. A few strands wind over the top vertebrae exposed by the thin hospital gown. The Gryffindor has never seen someone so sweaty and tired look so sinister before in his life.

Shouts and pounding footsteps can be heard coming down the corridor.

Molten eyes glow from their sunken sockets as Voldemort sibilates the magic word. The sink once more drops down into the pipe, and once again Harry's torn head first down into the Chamber of Secrets.

The slide is still disgusting, and muck weaves itself into his flimsy hospital gown, working its way into various crevices left exposed. Harry feels a little bit better knowing that Riddle won't escape un-mucked however. It's still exhilarating, the wind whistling across the shells of their ears and cooling they're damp grimy hair and faces.

Harry hears the distant thud of the sink closing back over top the pipe.

And it's one of those rare moments where Tom looks back over his shoulder and grins a full tooth smile at Harry, and even though they're disgusting, dressed in thin, dirty hospital gear, and life couldn't be worse, Harry whoops back and laughs full and throaty like he hasn't done in a long long time.

When they hit the bottom of the pipe, not even Voldemort is able to land neatly. They end up in a tangled mass of boney limbs and rodent skeletons. The Dark Lord lifts himself off of Harry a few inches so that he's straddling the boy, hips locked tightly together. Voldemort hears his pet's breath hitch, eyes still glowing from the excitement of the insane escape they had just made.

Voldemort can't help but tug fingers back through the wild strands pressed against Harry's forehead, and bends down to apply a claiming bite to the younger boy's chin. Green eyes snap open and he arches thin bones up to press against his claimer. Every contact point makes Harry shiver with an aching cold that seeps into his very bones.

Harry's lost and doesn't know if he can find himself anymore.

And then it's gone, and he's left gasping on the ground with little bones slicing into the delicate flesh of his arms and back. He presses his hand against his chest trying to calm his breathing as the frostbite retreats along with the Dark Lord.

"What are you doing to me?" Harry breaths, feeling his guts twisting unnaturally inside of him. Either Voldemort doesn't hear, or chooses to ignore him.

Finally, he pushes himself up, cutting grimy fingers on rat vertebrae. Voldemort saunters away without a backward glance.

Harry sprints after him, trying to ignore the fact that his bare feet are taking the brunt of the sharp little bones. He trips over a stone on the way, barely managing to not face plant on the chamber floor.

Harry reaches his doppelgänger, panting a bit from the pain in his feet, and the pain in his lungs. The main doors to the chamber are already opening, the egg-sized gems glittering maliciously from the sockets of stone snake's eyes.

Voldemort's eyes widen a split second before a resounding blast echoes down the pipe. Stones shake loose from the ceiling, and faint shouts can be heard from above. Voldemort yanks Harry through the opening doors and slams them shut behind the two.

The Dark Lord whips around and glares at Harry. Go sit over there and be QUIET! The young man snaps back around and Harry begins to notice the kind of exceptionally forceful concentration Riddle has when attempting a magical feat; many of which the Dark Lord has displayed wandlessly and in the same day. Harry can see the strain in the other man's body in the slope of his shoulders and pace of his breathing. Deep purple shadows are etched under scarlet eyes set into hollowed out sockets. Skin stretched tightly against sharp cheekbones, and Harry knows he can't look all that much better himself.

Except that Riddle has an enormous rapidly pulsing mass of frenzied magic pushing against that paper-thin skin, veins traced in glowing lines just under the surface.

Riddle is fiercely concentrating on his task of what Harry assumes is sealing the chamber doors against intruders. He's muttering in Parsel and drawing bloodied fingertips in sharp jagged motions across stone snakes. The carved creatures are coming to life and zigzagging to cover the crevices in the great door.

But Harry can see the last of the crimson magic bleeding out of Riddle to infuse the living stone creatures. The Dark Lord is sweating more and still chanting, but his breath is coming in shorter spurts and his skin is loosing its glow.

Stones rattle, and Harry can hear shouts much closer now, just on the other side of the door. He leaps forward and wraps fingers around Riddle's waist, startling the exhausted Dark Lord. The man drops his attempts to seal the door, instead focusing his last bit of energy on fighting of his supposed attacker.

Take it from me! Harry yells though their mind link. All he receives is a confused angry mass of anger pushing back against him like a rabid animal. Instead he closes his eyes hastily as the shouts and spells grow louder still. Focusing on the red pulsing link that is Voldemort's connection to him, he pushes his own magic down the line like turning on a faucet of green water.

A gasp of understanding clears the Dark Lord's animalistic fervor, and with a savage unforgiving pull, Harry feels the magic draining out of him in a violent suction. It leaves his bones aching and his skin dry; the membrane over his eyes tightens painfully and his fingers curl claw-like into the Dark Lord's rejuvenated flesh.

As Harry's vision goes black, and the last thing he hears is the high pitched cackle of the Dark Lord ringing around the chamber.

Harry wakes to find himself held securely against Voldemort's chest, skin pink from the heat of the water around them. They're leaning against the edge of a bath that's set into the floor made of marble like Harry's never seen. It's not tiled, but the bath is cut directly from what seems to be one giant slab of black threaded through with green and silver fibers.

But Harry's brain quickly hones down to a single point: the one connecting him and the Dark Lord.

Harry feels like he should be outraged that Voldemort took the liberty of fucking him while he was unconscious, however the connection between the two has only grown stronger since yesterday, or whenever; Harry's lost track of time.

Strong arms grip him from behind, and hips undulate up into him, sliding a thick piece of flesh up inside of him. Harry cries out, throwing his head back, and bringing his throat in alignment with Voldemort's teeth.

Bruises overlap other bruises, and Voldemort adds another set on top of the purple and green marks already pressed into Harry's flesh.

"How does it feel to be owned so completely, pet?" Slam! The question is rhetorical as Harry sees stars Riddle's cock rattles his teeth with the amount of upward force exerted. He couldn't answer if he tried. (A slow withdrawal, and then another upward thrust that has Harry gasping for more.)

Harry claws at anything he can reach; scrapping fingers against the smooth bowl of marble they're bathing in. Tears drip down Harry's face, mingling with the water.

"P- Please! Please, Riddle!" Another couple slams and Harry whimpers, feeling the chilled spurt of seed coat his insides.

"What pet? Today I will give you anything you ask for; you saved us both." Harry whimpers, still hard from arousal. Voldemort slides him off of himself, spinning the boy around in his lap. Tapered white fingers lightly trace the vein on the bottom of Harry's length.

Harry turns beat red, embarrassed beyond belief that he's in this situation again. He should be kicking and screaming, trying his best to get away. Harry can't bring himself to even attempt to articulate what he wants—more—no-

"More what, pet? This time," Cool lips slide against his skin, pressed behind the delicate flesh of Harry's ear. "I'm going to make you beg me for it."

Harry wonders when his brain went to frozen mush; it seems like he's been submerged in a bone-chilling red mist for so long that everything has gone numb. Everything except the places that he can feel the Dark Lord touching him; Harry doesn't know what he wants anymore.

The Dark Lord seems to have forgotten about his request, and yanks Harry up off his lap and onto the side of the bowl. With Harry on his back, head resting just on the edge of the water, Voldemort drags his legs up over his shoulders and slams back into him, already hard again, pushing Harry forward and his head over the edge of the tub.

"Fuck!" Harry screams, sputtering water as it sloshes over his head and into his mouth. He rapidly blinks his eyes, trying futilely to rid them of bath water. Combined with his bad vision, all he can see is a demonic grin shaping a mouth identical to his.

Harry sees stars, as water painfully burns down the back of his throat. He coughs wetly, trying to suck air into his lungs, but water continues to choke him. Voldemort continues to slam into him, and Harry feels like a great weight is pushing down on his chest, pushing him down into the water. His back arches over the edge, spine hurting from the sharp edge of the bowl digging into his back.

Harry thinks it's kind of beautiful down here, with the water sloshing over him, distorting the room into insane shapes with too much saturation….

And then he's waking up again, this time to a spell that's forcefully expelling the water from his lungs through any orifice it can.

"Ga-AK!" Harry sputters, jets of liquid shooting out his nose and mouth. The back of his throat burns something fierce.

As soon as the spell is finished, he turns his best death glare on the amused red eyes looking down at him. He thinks that maybe he's lost his touch, as all the Dark Lord does is snort condescendingly down at him.

"Oh no, little Potter. You don't get off that easily." Harry's still gasping for breath, shivering from the bone deep cold that seems to have permeated his entire soul. His body aches more than he can ever remember it doing so before; his shin is throbbing, and he feels like a drowned rat lying on the side of some strange marble bathing pool Merlin-knows-where.

"Where—" Harry coughs, more water burning the back of his throat. "Where are we?"

"Slytherin's underground bathing chamber." Voldemort throws over his shoulder as he saunters away, naked and as though he doesn't have a care in the world.

Still sputtering, Harry manages to drag himself to his feet to chase after the Dark Lord. Harry wonders why Voldemort looks better in this body than Harry does. It's absolutely ridiculous, Harry thinks.

"Come, let me give you the grand tour."


End file.
